Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [4]
Fraser's cheeks puffed out. Behind his eyes, blood pounded and surged and bubbled against the inside of his skin. He tried again to dig his fingers into the clothesline, but it had sunk in too deep. And he was too weak to prise Effie's fingers loose.
Why was she doing this?
He tried to breathe. Sucked in nothing. Couldn't even make a noise.
A figure appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing only a pair of disposable yellow gloves, clutching a carrier bag in one hand, a lit cigarette and a hacksaw in the other. Smudges of red tangled the hairs on his bare thighs, spattered his clear plastic booties.
This was the fucker who'd killed Uncle Phil and Fraser couldn't do anything about it.
Tears spilled down Fraser's cheeks. He wasn't going to see Dad again. Off on some trip, hadn't seen him in ages. Never see his arsehole little brother again either. Never see his granny again.
Ringing in his ears. Metallic taste in his mouth. He licked his lip, spat. His nose was bleeding.
Had to be Worm who was behind this. The bastard must have found out that Fraser had been sleeping with Simone. She was a great shag but she wasn't worth dying for. Still, Fraser hoped she was okay, that Worm wasn't planning some kind of fucked-up revenge for her too. Was somebody strangling her this very minute? Was Worm doing it himself? Would he cut her head off too?
But why would Worm want Uncle Phil dead?
Fraser's vision blackened at the edges. In the middle, spots and bars of colours hovered and drifted: livid purple and burnt orange and tangerine and scorched brown and lime green.
His eyes closed and he knew they'd never open again.
Prelude To A Savage Night
The Savages
ST ANDREW'S BUS station. Pretty small for a city the size of Edinburgh. A dozen or so lanes, or stances as they were called. Appropriate, really, since a stance was what you adopted when you were about to fight, and Tommy Savage was in a fighting mood.
It wasn't going to be a physical battle, though. No fists, or knives. Tommy didn't approve of that. No, this was a battle of minds. Just so long as Phil kept his eyes peeled and didn't get drunk and fall asleep or something equally stupid, then Tommy's plan should work.
Tommy closed the locker door, pocketed the key. He was going to follow the instructions to the letter.
He turned towards the exit. After a couple of steps, he imagined the consequences of losing the key, and dug it out of his pocket and clasped it in his hand. Held it tight as he strode past the seat where Phil was perched, pretending to read a magazine. Or maybe he was actually reading it. Riveted by the cartoons, no doubt. At least he was awake. And sober, although he was swigging from a can of lager.
Tommy ought to swipe it from him to make sure he stayed awake, but he walked past, spotting three more cans on the seat as he did so. Phil kept his colourful head buried in his paper. Tommy was glad those genes had bypassed him, although it'd look a lot better if Phil got it cut properly, or put a comb through it occasionally.
Anyway, everything was as it should be. No eye contact, no sign that they knew each other. If anybody was watching, they'd believe Tommy was alone.
Nothing for it. He'd had to place his trust in Phil. Tommy was hard on him sometimes, but only because he'd turned into a slob. But if you couldn't trust your own brother, that said a lot about the kind of person you were.
Tommy's instructions were to grab a taxi and head for an address in the west of the city.
Onwards and upwards, then. Up the escalator and out of the station.
The outside air hit him hard. It had grown chilly in the last hour. Felt like icy hands clasping his cheeks. He pulled his coat tighter around him. He ought to do up the zip but he didn't like wearing a zipped-up coat. It was like wearing a bag over your left shoulder. Plain wrong. But try explaining that to somebody (and he had), and you got nothing but strange looks. He kept his coat open, stuffed his hands in the pockets cause that's how he liked